Najljepsi odlomci i citati iz svjetske knjizevnosti

[Artemis]

‎..."Oljušteno od magle, jutro je siromašnije od tišine. Nedostaje mu, sigurno, moja uobrazilja da iz svakoga nestajanja put vodi u nastajanje.Krila ne rastu iz tijela, nego iz dubine duha. Zašto se mučim da utvrdim da li postoji ili ne suprotno klupče svijesti?Ja nisam rođen hotimice, niti mi se taj oblik iznenada dogodio. Ja sam nešto od sebe samog i polako se vraćam sebi potpuno prirodno, kao što mi se vraća srce, čvrstina pršljenova ili dar disanja..."

M.Antić

[^m00dO_oD_kOlJiBrIyA^]

“Volim da budem s tobom zato što se nikada ne dosađujem, čak i kada ne razgovaramo, kada se ne dodirujemo, kada nismo u istoj prostoriji, ja se ne dosađujem. Nikad mi nije dosadno. Mislim da je to stoga što imam povjerenja u tebe, imam povjerenja u ono o čemu razmišljaš. Razumiješ? Volim sve ono o čemu razmišljaš? Razumiješ? Volim sve ono što vidim kod tebe, i sve ono što ne vidim. Ipak, znam tvoje mane. Ali mislim da se tvoje mane dobro slažu sa mojim vrlinama. Ne plašimo se istih stvari. Čak se i aveti koje nas proganjaju lijepo slažu međusobno! Ti vrijediš više nego što izgledaš, više od onoga što pokazuješ. Sa mnom je obrnuto. Meni je potreban tvoj pogled, jer mi daje dubinu. Ja sam kao dječiji zmajevi na vjetru. Ako me neko ne drži na uzici… hoooop, odletim… A često pomislim na tebe da si dovoljno jak da me držiš na uzici i dovoljno pametan da me odmotaš, pustiš da letim…Zar nije nevjerovatno sresti nekoga i pomisliti: sa ovom osobom se osjećam dobro.”


Ana Gavalda

[^m00dO_oD_kOlJiBrIyA^]

"Pleteš sitno, pažljivo san kao bijelu čipku na crnoj pozadini spuštenih vjeđa. Redaš očicu do očice i gradiš kao pauk nevidljivu finu mrežu u koju bi htio uloviti svoju misao kao dosadnu crnu muhu što brunda i zuji u mraku i prelijeće hirovito s jednog na drugi kraj mozga i ne da ti usnuti.
Vrti se tajanstveno vreteno sna u tmini zatvorenih očiju polako, lijepo i namata beskonačnu tanku nit vremena, godina, uspomena. Prede i plete čudnovati pauk i obavija lukavo, neosjetno tvoju misao laganom pređom sna. Prelijeću poslednji meteori, u očima rasprsnula se posljednja raketa, svečanost je završena i sada padaju prosute iskre, gase se i tonu u duboko i mirno more sna. Još se samo lelujaju u mraku zeleni i žuti kolobari kao zaboravljeni lampioni koje tihi noćni vjetar ljulja i gasi jednoga za drugim.
Slatko te opija dugo žuđeni san... I gle: već su ti noge i ruke usnule i čitavo tijelo već mudro sanja o svojim tihim krvotocima, o svojim pretvaranjima tvari, o zmijuljastim peristaltičnim gibanjima; srce mirno kuca, poigravaju se nestašno crvena i bijela zrnca u krvi, počivaju umorno živčane niti i cijelo je tijelo kao umorni parobrod u noćnoj luci iz kojeg lijeno kulja lagani pramen dima...samo glava neće da usne! Glava traži još jednu sliku kao uvjet, sliku sna: umornu pticu na grani koja je savila glavu pod krilo...
No ptica se probudila od tvoga pogleda. Uplašeno se trgnula i otprhnula.
I opet si ostao budan."

[^m00dO_oD_kOlJiBrIyA^]

"Sully, zaboga" obrati mu se Jonathan prijekorno "ne budi budalast! Što mi to svakodnevno uvježbavamo? Kad bi naše prijateljstvo ovisilo o vremenu i prostoru, onda bismo, savladavši vrijeme i prostor, upropastili i naše bratstvo!
Savlada mo li prostor, ostaje nam samo OVDJE.
Savladamo li vrijeme, ostaje nam samo SADA.
Zar ne misliš da ćemo se na tom putu, između Sada i Ovdje, ipak povremeno sretati"?

[^m00dO_oD_kOlJiBrIyA^]

Vi, koji mislite da ste uzeli u zakup istinu ne dolazite mi na oči,
jer vas ne mogu vidjeti.
Zašto vaš korak tako oholo ječi po pločama?
Ujutro ste zadovoljni sami sa sobom, a uveče brojite novac, i kamo
god pođete, stiže vaša naduvenost prije vas.
Po nedokučivim odlukama
promisli dano vam je da vladate, a vi mislite da držite promisao u
rukama. Na sve što nije već sadržano u vama vi odgovarate otrovnom
pljuvačkom; ko vas se takne, dugo vas se sjeća!
I mada svaki dan
saginjete glavu pred Bogom, srce vaše stoji uspravno i sve vaše misli
glade vašu taštinu niz dlaku.
O, vidio sam ja vašu pravdu i vašu istinu,
- i ne dolazite mi na oči, jer vas ne mogu vidjeti!

[^m00dO_oD_kOlJiBrIyA^]

"-Reci mi, ako znas, koliko je teska jedna snjezna pahuljica? - upita sjenica golubicu, dok su zajedno promatrale kako snijeg pomalo sipi i stvara bijelu naslagu.
- Nista, cak i manje od nista - odgovori golubica ne premisljajuci previse.
- Cekaj, cekaj malo, pa ces vidjeti da i ona ima svoju tezinu.
I sjenica isprica svoju pticju prispodobu.
- Odmarala sam se na borovoj grancici kad je poceo padati ovaj snijeg. Kao sto vidis, nije bilo vijavice ni vjetra, snijeg je mirno, tiho padao, kao sto nam se dogadja u snu. A buduci da nisam znala raditi nista pametnije, pocela sam brojati pahuljice, koje su se slagale kraj mene na grancici. Pala je, ako se ne varam, 3.751 pahuljica i sve je bilo savrseno mirno, a kad se spustila 3.752. pahuljica, grancica je pukla, a ja sam morala odleprsati.
- Vidis da i pahuljica ima svoju tezinu - zakljuci mudro sjenica.
A golubica, sjecajuci se valjda simbolike mira koja se uz nju vezuje jos od Noinih dana, promisli i u sebi promrsi: "Mozda nedostaje samo jos jedan covjek da cijeli svijet padne u - mir!"

[the_sacrament]

Rekla je samo nemoj
... i dan se povukao u svoju crnu senku
ispod koje su nesretni zemljani patuljici igrali ruski rulet sa drvenim pištoljima,
... I bio je Vrbas, al ne onaj koji Dunavom odlazi u Crno more, već onaj ispod Kastela,
koji se vraća po priču za uplakane vrbe sa ade
... i bila je mesečina čije su zvezdane oči olovni oblaci prekrili svojom vlažnom pelerinom...
... i bili smo mi
i nismo bili...
dve senke, jedna senka, pola senke
i ćutnja... i ćutnja... i ćutnja...

.. i znao sam...
tek kad se iz kastela pojavi prvi svitac moći ću nekako
da joj kažem...

Oprosti što nemam reči tiših od pčelinjeg zuja,
dok mesec sleđenim srebrom zasipa jesenje vrbake.
Srce se najlakše opije ranjenim korakom,
leluja prtinjajući nebesku stazu kroz sunce i kroz oblake.

Oprosti što su mi oči prepune zlatnih svitanja,
pa su mi breze, princeze, umotane u marame od lana.
Na koplju ti nosim dušu umornu od samoće i skitanja,
da kisne pod tvojim balkonom bez kaputa i kišobrana.

Umiven suzama neba što preti da se u slapu prospe
šapućem ti uspavanku rimama isčezlih trubadura,
a u srcu nosim medaljon sa ikonom presvetle Gospe.

Moje su pesme noćas umolitvene u lavirint od nada,
praćene muzikom kiše, svirane iz neznanog dur-a,
pa nek ti budu jastuk na koji... mesečina pada...


Rekla je samo nemoj...
i stado crnih leptira je sakrilo stotinjak sveća u staklu...
i ne znajući da igraju poslednju noć...
... i ponovo je bio mesec oskrvavljen kao dečji balon
nakon strasnog poljupca nokta
... i bio je splav od poljskog cveća za Robinsona i za Petka,
koga su vetrovi slučajno poveli na malo noćno kupanje
... i bili smo mi... i nismo bili...
dve senke... jedna senka... pola senke...
i ćutnja... i ćutnja... i ćutnja...

i znao sam...
tek kad iz Kastela zapeva prvi slavuj moći ću nekako da prošapućem...

Ovde u zatvoru sobe, u kraljevstvu koje te sluti
u svakom zovu trube napravljene od vrbovih kora...
Ovde gde jednako traju i vekovi i minuti
i gde beli jedrenjaci deru pučinu mrtvog mora...

dani dišu na škrge i u ponoć bi da se udave
u reči što ispod zemlje svoje korito guta,
u čiju senku je bačen ključ od trostruke brave
sudbonosnih vrata, na papirusu pisanog puta.

Noć se po zemlji kotrlja strepeći od svakog kruga,
opijena mirisom dunja što ih niko ubrati ne želi...
neke se ptice nikad ne žele vratiti s juga...

Niz nisku usnulih reči crvenkasta cure slova...
Ćuti i ne gledaj mesec što se nedoklan deli,
nad ikonom gde kleči grešnik bez Božjeg blagoslova.


Rekla je samo nemoj...
i nisu još verovale ribe što ponekad u sumrak izlaze iz Vrbasa
da slušaju šaputanje juga u naručju breza i topola...
.. i bio je čamac u žicama od puzavica , bez užeta i sidra,
sveže ukraden iz doline našeg detinjstva
... i bila je mesečina... noćno sunce... kašika meda i
gitara na kojoj su svirci svirali Uspavanku za gospođicu N...

i bili smo mi... i nismo bili...
dve senke, jedna senka.. pola senke...
i ćutnja... i ćutnja.... i ćutnja...

... i znao sam...
tek kad se na Kastel sruše prve zvezde ona će znati...


Lagan sam kao perce iz krila divljeg gusana
kome su lovačke puške otkinule pola kljuna.
I doći ću ti kao senka da pokupim šećer sa usana
koji će pospanim okom da osvetli jesenja luna.

Ne traži me na trepavici noćne lampe
gde se senka ukrsti sa kazaljkom noćnog sata.
Ja imam dvorac od maćuhica i ako podigneš ruku
dodirnut će nam se prsti
za malu noćnu muziku... kidanih srebrnih žica...

I da znaš... kad noć napukne i kroz pukotinu proviri,
stidljivo kao puž pred obrisom nezvanog gosta...
... ja lelujam kroz vrbake sa smeškom što se širi.

I ne znam gde pobeći osim sna,
koji boji u lila ...mesečevu dugu što se zlati povrh mosta
gde ćeš biti zauvek
i gde si oduvek bila.

[the_sacrament]

Rekla je samo nemoj
... i dan se povukao u svoju crnu senku
ispod koje su nesretni zemljani patuljici igrali ruski rulet sa drvenim pištoljima,
... I bio je Vrbas, al ne onaj koji Dunavom odlazi u Crno more, već onaj ispod Kastela,
koji se vraća po priču za uplakane vrbe sa ade
... i bila je mesečina čije su zvezdane oči olovni oblaci prekrili svojom vlažnom pelerinom...
... i bili smo mi
i nismo bili...
dve senke, jedna senka, pola senke
i ćutnja... i ćutnja... i ćutnja...

.. i znao sam...
tek kad se iz kastela pojavi prvi svitac moći ću nekako
da joj kažem...

Oprosti što nemam reči tiših od pčelinjeg zuja,
dok mesec sleđenim srebrom zasipa jesenje vrbake.
Srce se najlakše opije ranjenim korakom,
leluja prtinjajući nebesku stazu kroz sunce i kroz oblake.

Oprosti što su mi oči prepune zlatnih svitanja,
pa su mi breze, princeze, umotane u marame od lana.
Na koplju ti nosim dušu umornu od samoće i skitanja,
da kisne pod tvojim balkonom bez kaputa i kišobrana.

Umiven suzama neba što preti da se u slapu prospe
šapućem ti uspavanku rimama isčezlih trubadura,
a u srcu nosim medaljon sa ikonom presvetle Gospe.

Moje su pesme noćas umolitvene u lavirint od nada,
praćene muzikom kiše, svirane iz neznanog dur-a,
pa nek ti budu jastuk na koji... mesečina pada...


Rekla je samo nemoj...
i stado crnih leptira je sakrilo stotinjak sveća u staklu...
i ne znajući da igraju poslednju noć...
... i ponovo je bio mesec oskrvavljen kao dečji balon
nakon strasnog poljupca nokta
... i bio je splav od poljskog cveća za Robinsona i za Petka,
koga su vetrovi slučajno poveli na malo noćno kupanje
... i bili smo mi... i nismo bili...
dve senke... jedna senka... pola senke...
i ćutnja... i ćutnja... i ćutnja...

i znao sam...
tek kad iz Kastela zapeva prvi slavuj moći ću nekako da prošapućem...

Ovde u zatvoru sobe, u kraljevstvu koje te sluti
u svakom zovu trube napravljene od vrbovih kora...
Ovde gde jednako traju i vekovi i minuti
i gde beli jedrenjaci deru pučinu mrtvog mora...

dani dišu na škrge i u ponoć bi da se udave
u reči što ispod zemlje svoje korito guta,
u čiju senku je bačen ključ od trostruke brave
sudbonosnih vrata, na papirusu pisanog puta.

Noć se po zemlji kotrlja strepeći od svakog kruga,
opijena mirisom dunja što ih niko ubrati ne želi...
neke se ptice nikad ne žele vratiti s juga...

Niz nisku usnulih reči crvenkasta cure slova...
Ćuti i ne gledaj mesec što se nedoklan deli,
nad ikonom gde kleči grešnik bez Božjeg blagoslova.


Rekla je samo nemoj...
i nisu još verovale ribe što ponekad u sumrak izlaze iz Vrbasa
da slušaju šaputanje juga u naručju breza i topola...
.. i bio je čamac u žicama od puzavica , bez užeta i sidra,
sveže ukraden iz doline našeg detinjstva
... i bila je mesečina... noćno sunce... kašika meda i
gitara na kojoj su svirci svirali Uspavanku za gospođicu N...

i bili smo mi... i nismo bili...
dve senke, jedna senka.. pola senke...
i ćutnja... i ćutnja.... i ćutnja...

... i znao sam...
tek kad se na Kastel sruše prve zvezde ona će znati...


Lagan sam kao perce iz krila divljeg gusana
kome su lovačke puške otkinule pola kljuna.
I doći ću ti kao senka da pokupim šećer sa usana
koji će pospanim okom da osvetli jesenja luna.

Ne traži me na trepavici noćne lampe
gde se senka ukrsti sa kazaljkom noćnog sata.
Ja imam dvorac od maćuhica i ako podigneš ruku
dodirnut će nam se prsti
za malu noćnu muziku... kidanih srebrnih žica...

I da znaš... kad noć napukne i kroz pukotinu proviri,
stidljivo kao puž pred obrisom nezvanog gosta...
... ja lelujam kroz vrbake sa smeškom što se širi.

I ne znam gde pobeći osim sna,
koji boji u lila ...mesečevu dugu što se zlati povrh mosta
gde ćeš biti zauvek
i gde si oduvek bila.

[Sirenita]

U tišini i nepomičnom vazduhu letnjeg dana javi se odnekud neočekivan i nevidljiv pokret,
kao zalutao i usamljen talas. I moj napola otvoren prozor kucnu nekoliko puta o zid. Tak- tak- tak!
Ne dižući oči sa posla, samo se nasmeših kao čovek koji zna dobro sve oko sebe i živi mirno u sreći
koja je iznad iznenađenja. Bez reči i bez glasa, samo jednim pokretom glave dadoh znak da je šala
uspela, da može ući, da je čekam sa radošću. Tako ona dolazi uvek, sa ljupkom šalom, sa muzikom ili
mirisom. (Muzikom slučajnog, usamljenog zvuka koji izgleda neobičan i značajan, mirisom celog
jednog predela ili severca koji nagoveštava prvi sneg.) Ponekad čujem posve nejasan razgovor, kao
da pita nekoga pred kapijom za moj stan. Ponekad vidim samo kako pored moga prozora mine
njena senka, vitka, nečujna, i opet ne okrećem glave niti dižem pogleda, toliko sam siguran da je
to ona i da će sada ući. Samo neopisivo i neizrecivo uživam u tom deliću sekunde.
Naravno da posle nikad ne uđe niti je ugledaju moje oči koje je nikad nisu videle. Ali ja sam već
navikao da je i ne očekujem i da sav utonem u slast koju daje beskrajni trenutak njenog javljanja. A
to što se ne pojavljuje, što ne postoji, to sam prežalio i preboleo kao bolest koja se boluje samo
jednom u životu.
Opažajući i pamteći danima i godinama njeno javljanje u najrazličitijim oblicima, uvek čudno i
neočekivano, uspeo sam da nađem u tome izvesnu pravilnost, kao neki red. Pre svega, priviđenje je
u vezi sa suncem i njegovim putem. (Ja to zovem priviđenjem zbog vas kojima ovo pričam, za mene
lično bilo bi i smešno i uvredljivo da svoju najveću stvarnost nazivam tim imenom, koje u stvari ne
znači ništa.) Da, ona se javlja gotovo isključivo u vremenu od kraja aprila pa do početka novembra.
Preko zime vrlo retko, a i tada opet u vezi sa suncem i svetlošću. I to, kako sunce raste, tako njena
javljanja bivaju češća i živilja. U maju retka i neredovita. U julu, avgustu gotovo svakodnevno. A u
oktobru, kad je popodnevno sunce žitko i kad ga čovek pije bez kraja i zamora kao da pije samu žeđ,
ona se gotovo ne odmiče od mene dok sedim na terasi, pokriven pletivom sunca i senki od lišća.
Osećam je u sebi po jedva čujnom šuštanju listova u knjizi ili po neprimetnom pucketanju parketa. Ali
najčešće stoji, nevidljiva i nečujna, negde iza moje senke. A ja satima živim u svesti o njenom
prisustvu, što je mnogo više od svega što mogu da daju oči i uši i sva sirota čula.
Ali kad počne da se skraćuje sunčeva staza i lišće da biva ređe, a na jasnoj kori drveta ukaže se
munjevita veverica koja već menja dlaku, priviđenje počinje da se gubi i bledi. Sve su ređi oni sitni
šumovi koje sam navikao da čujem iza sebe u sobi, potpuno nestanu šale za koje znaju samo
bezbrižnost mladosti i večiti svet snova. Nevidljiva žena počinje da se utkiva u moju senku. Nestaje i
umire kao što nestaju aveti i priseni, bez znaka i oproštaja. Nikad nije postojala. Sad je nema.
Poučen svojim dugim iskustvom, ja znam da ona spava u mojoj senci kao u čudesnom logu iz kojeg
ustaje i javlja mi se neredovno i neočekivano, po zakonima kojima je teško uhvatiti kraj. Ćudljivo i
nepredvidljivo, kako se samo može očekivati od stvorenja koje je i žena i avet. I potpuno isto kao sa
ženom od krvi i mesa, i sa njom dolaze na mahove u moj život sumnja i nemir i tuga, bez leka i
objašnjenja.

[the_sacrament]

Jednom sam šetajući čuo kako jedan stari čovjek govori drugom: Bio sam zaljubljen u istu ženu 50 godina.
Bio sam dirnut onim što sam čuo, dok nije završio rečenicom: Voleo bih da je to znala.

[Interpol]

When you're in love, your brain secretes endorphins into your blood. Organic morphine leaks out of a gland in your skull, feels like a low-grade opium rush. Some people confuse the two, the head rush and the love. You think you're in love with a person, but you're in love with a syringe. Skin like liquid silk, hair, eyes, laugh, smile, impulses, trust, confidence, curves, perfume, sweat, affection, but still a syringe. You're high and hooked, and soon come the more, more, more: marriage, career, mortgage, children, school, it's harder and harder to feel that rush.
Happens all the time, men and women. Body clocks twenty years out of sync between genders, the rush dries up. You look for new hooks, new fixes, anything for that more, more, more.


- Craig Clevenger, "The Contortionist's Handbook"

[ocean soul]

"Šta je to s nama i sa životom, u kakve se to konce splićemo, u šta upadamo svojom voljom u šta nevoljom, šta od nas zavisi, i šta možemo sa sobom. Nisam vešt razmišljanju, više volim život nego misao o njemu, ali kako god sam prevrtao, ispada da nam se većina stvari dešava mimo nas, bez naše odluke. Slučajnost odlučuje o mome životnom putu i o mojoj sudbini, i najčešće bivam doveden pred gotov čin, upadam u jedan od mogućih tokova, u drugi će me ubaciti samo druga slučajnost. Ne verujem da mi je unapred zapisan put kojim ću proći, jer ne verujem u neki naročit red ovoga sveta. Ne odlučujemo, već se zatičemo. Strmoglavljeni smo u igru, punu nebrojenih izmena, jednog određenog trenutka, kad nas samo ta prilika čeka, jedina koja nas može sačekati, u toku mešanja. Ne možes je zaobići, ni odbiti. Tvoja je, kao voda u koju padneš. Pa plivaš, ili potoneš."

Meša Selimović

[the_sacrament]

Umem da te prepoznam
Da ti vratim sve što sam ti oduzeo
Da te volim
Da te u mislima svlačim dok ti srce ne ugledam
Da samo na tebe mislim dok me lažna smrt muči
Dok mi krv slika užase u glavi
Dok me sume zaobilaze pevajući
Dok dan raste od zadobijenih rana.

[ocean soul]

Ne zaboravi Ljubavi moja da uvek postoji neko ko te čeka na kraju Puta, na kraju dana, na početku dana, na kraju meseca, godine, života, na kraju svega. Uvek i zauvek. Uvek i zauvek postoji neko ko te voli baš takvog kakav jesi, ko te baš takvog sniva i želi, kome si drag, ko te voli i da uvek i zauvek postoji neko ko te želi saslušati, ko samo čeka da nešto kažeš. Taj neko sam ja. Ljubavi. I na početku i na kraju tvoga Puta. Spojeni ili odvojeni, sastavljeni ili rastavljeni. I kada odeš i kada se vratiš. I u snu i na javi, jer ti si čista mirisna duša. I znam da me voliš. I znaš da te volim.

Ivo Andrić

[Interpol]

"Guts"

By Chuck Palahniuk (from the collection Haunted)


Inhale.
Take in as much air as you can.
This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was thirteen years old he heard about “pegging.” This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend’s a little sex maniac. He’s always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it’s going to look at the supermarket checkstand, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So, my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he’s going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it’s suppertime. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot and it’s gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now he’s grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents’ grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them.
That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: “Spirit of the Stairway.” In French: Esprit de l’escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it’s too late. Say you’re at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party…
As you start down the stairway, then -- magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should’ve said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That’s the Spirit of the Stairway.
The trouble is even the French don’t have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around the kid’s neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look… better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad, teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you’d see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It’s this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.
After this, the little brother, one day he doesn’t show up at school. That night, he calls to ask if I’ll pick up his homework for the next couple weeks. Because he’s in the hospital.
He’s got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he’s got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don’t come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy.
On the phone, the kid says how -- the day before -- he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he’s heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ball-point pen’s too big. A pencil’s too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there’s a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.
Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.
Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They’ve totally re-invented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can’t keep track of the wax. He’s one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn’t sticking out anymore.
The thin wax rod, it’s slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can’t even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.
From downstairs, his mom shouts it’s suppertime. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.
It’s after dinner when the kid’s guts start to hurt. It’s wax so he figured it would just melt inside him and he’d pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kidneys. He can’t stand straight.
This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.
The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it’s collecting all the minerals in his piss. It’s getting bigger and more rough, coated with crystals of calcium, it’s bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.
This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.
On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.
They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mistake, and now he’ll never be a lawyer.
Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.
What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents’ swimming pool. With one deep breath, I’d kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I’d sit down there for two, three, four minutes.
Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I’d do this all afternoon. After I’d finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.

[Interpol]

After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That’s why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my Mom.
That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, thinking she’s just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father AND the uncle.
In the end, it’s never what you worry about that gets you.
The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it.
As the French would say: Who doesn’t like getting their butt sucked?
Still, one minute you’re just a kid getting off, and the next minute you’ll never be a lawyer.
One minute, I’m settling on the pool bottom, and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I’m grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.
One minute, I’ve got enough air, and my dick’s in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister’s got ballet. Nobody’s supposed to be home for hours.
My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.
I do this again and again.
This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.
And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.
It’s then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can’t. I can’t get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.
Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you’re going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.
People just don’t talk about it. Not even French people talk about EVERYTHING.
Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I’m kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.
Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I’m maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.
The bright sparks of light crossing and criss-crossing my eyes, I turn and look back… but it doesn’t make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins has come up out of the pool drain and it’s holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake’s thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.
That’s the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that’s never seen the light of day, it’s been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.
So… I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It’s maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With another kick, I’m an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I’m an inch closer to my escape.
Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It’s the kind of horse-pill vitamin my Dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.
It’s seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.
It’s not a snake. It’s my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call, prolapsed. It’s my guts sucked into the drain.
Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That’s about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we’re all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working – unraveling my insides -- until it’s got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit, and you can see how this might turn you inside out.
What I can tell you is your guts don’t feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you’re digesting, doctor’s call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.
That’s all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out my ass, me holding onto what’s left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on.
God forbid my folks see my dick.
My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.
You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lamb-skin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then, try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It’s too tough and rubbery. It’s so slimy you can’t hold on.
A lamb-skin condom, that’s just plain old intestine.
You can see what I’m up against.
You let go for a second, and you’re gutted.
You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you’re gutted.
You don’t swim, and you drown.
It’s a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.
What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital thirteen years ago. Here’s the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who’d care for them in their old age. Here’s all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.
Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow-striped swim trunks.
What even the French won’t talk about.
That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say: “I need that like I need a hole in my head…” Russian people say: “I need that like I need teeth in my asshole…”
Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse
Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.
Hell… even if you’re Russian, some day you just might want those teeth.
Otherwise, what you have to do is -- you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air, and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.
It’s not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night.
If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.
It’s hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I’d got in trouble or how I’d saved myself. After the hospital, my Mom said, “You didn’t know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock.” And she learned how to cook poached eggs.
All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me…
I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.

[Interpol]

Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don’t eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I’ll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.
After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don’t digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I’m lucky to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I’ve never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was thirteen.
Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my Dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vitamin pill still inside, even then, my Dad just said, “That dog was fucking nuts.”
Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my Dad say, “We couldn’t trust that dog alone for a second…”
Then my sister missed her period.
Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister’s abortion, even then my folks never mentioned it again.
Ever.
That is our invisible carrot.
You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.
I still have not.


End

[MorellaPraga]

Gregor


By Quim Monzó


(Translated by Peter Bush)


When the beetle emerged from his larval state one morning, he found he had been transformed into a fat boy. He was lying on his back, which was surprisingly soft and vulnerable, and if he raised his head slightly, he could see his pale, swollen belly. His extremities had been drastically reduced in number, and the few he could feel (he counted four eventually) were painfully tender and fleshy and so thick and heavy he couldn’t possibly move them around.


What had happened? The room seemed really tiny and the smell much less mildewy than before. There were hooks on the wall to hang a broom and mop on. In one corner, two buckets. Along another wall, a shelf with sacks, boxes, pots, a vacuum cleaner, and, propped against that, the ironing board. How small all those things seemed now—he’d hardly been able to take them in at a glance before. He moved his head. He tried twisting to the right, but his gigantic body weighed too much and he couldn’t. He tried a second time, and a third. In the end he was so exhausted that he was forced to rest.


He opened his eyes again in dismay. What about his family? He twisted his head to the left and saw them, an unimaginable distance away, motionless, observing him, in horror and in fear. He was sorry they felt frightened: if at all possible, he would have apologized for the distress he was causing. Every fresh attempt he made to budge and move towards them was more grotesque. He found it particularly difficult to drag himself along on his back. His instinct told him that if he twisted on to his front he might find it easier to move; although with only four (very stiff) extremities, he didn’t see how he could possibly travel very far. Fortunately, he couldn’t hear any noise and that suggested no humans were about. The room had one window and one door. He heard raindrops splashing on the zinc window sill. He hesitated, unsure whether to head towards the door or the window before finally deciding on the window—from there he could see exactly where he was, although he didn’t know what good that would do him. He tried to twist around with all his might. He had some strength, but it was evident he didn’t know how to channel it, and each movement he made was disconnected, aimless, and unrelated to any other. When he’d learned to use his extremities, things would improve considerably, and he would be able to leave with his family in tow. He suddenly realized that he was thinking, and that flash of insight made him wonder if he’d ever thought in his previous incarnation. He was inclined to think he had, but very feebly compared to his present potential.




After numerous attempts he finally managed to hoist his right arm on top of his torso; he thus shifted his weight to the left, making one last effort, twisted his body around, and fell heavily, face down. His family warily beat a retreat; they halted a good long way away, in case he made another sudden movement and squashed them. He felt sorry for them, put his left cheek to the ground, and stayed still. His family moved within millimeters of his eyes. He saw their antennae waving, their jaws set in a rictus of dismay. He was afraid he might lose them. What if they rejected him? As if she’d read his thoughts, his mother caressed his eyelashes with her antennae. Obviously, he thought, she must think I’m the one most like her. He felt very emotional (a tear rolled down his cheek and formed a puddle round the legs of his sister), and, wanting to respond to her caress, he tried to move his right arm, which he lifted but was unable to control; it crashed down, scattering his family, who sought refuge behind a container of liquid softener. His father moved and gingerly stuck his head out. Of course they understood he didn’t want to hurt them, that all those dangerous movements he was making were simply the consequence of his lack of expertise in controlling his monstrous body. He confirmed the latter when they approached him again. How small they seemed! Small and (though he was reluctant to accept this) remote, as if their lives were about to fork down irrevocably different paths. He’d have liked to tell them not to leave him, not to go until he could go with them, but he didn’t know how. He’d have liked to be able to stroke their antennae without destroying them, but as he’d seen, his clumsy movements brought real danger. He began the journey to the window on his front. Using his extremities, he gradually pulled himself across the room (his family remained vigilant) until he reached the window. But the window was very high up, and he didn’t see how he could climb that far. He longed for his previous body, so small, nimble, hard, and full of legs; it would have allowed him to move easily and quickly, and another tear rolled down, now prompted by his sense of powerlessness.


As the minutes passed, he slowly learned how to move his extremities, coordinate them, and apply the requisite strength to each arm. He learned how to move his fingers and gripped the windowsill. Seconds later he finally succeeded in raising his torso. He thought that was a real victory. He was now sitting down, legs crossed, with his left shoulder leaning on the section of wall under the window. His family stared at him from one corner of the room with a mixture of admiration and panic. He finally pulled himself on to his knees, gripped the sill with his hands, so he wouldn’t fall, and looked out of the window. Part of the building on the other side of the street stood out clearly. It was a very long, dark building, with symmetrical windows that broke up the monotony of the façade. It was still raining: big drops of rain that were easy to spot individually and hit the ground separately. He made one last effort and pulled himself up and stood erect. He marveled at being so vertical, yet felt uncomfortable at the same time, even queasy, and had to lean on the wall so as not to fall down: his legs soon went weak, and he gently eased himself down until he was back on his knees. He crawled towards the door. It was ajar. He had to push it to open it wide, and he pushed so energetically (he found it difficult to estimate the effort strictly necessary for each gesture he made) that he slammed it against the wall and it swung back and almost shut. He repeated the movement, less brusquely this time. Once he’d managed to open the door, he went out into the passageway, still on his knees.

[MorellaPraga]

Could humans be somewhere in the house? Probably, but (he im**agined) if he did find any, they wouldn’t hurt him; he looked like them now. The idea fascinated him. He’d no longer have to run away for fear they’d crush him underfoot! It was the first good thing about his transformation. He saw only one drawback: they would want to speak to him, and he wouldn’t know how to reply. Once he was in the passage, he pulled himself up again with the help of his arms. He didn’t feel so queasy now. He walked along slowly (his legs bore his weight better now) and every step forward he took became easier. There was a door at the end of the passage. He opened it. The bathroom. A toilet, bidet, bathtub, and two washbasins under their respective mirrors. He had never looked at himself before and now saw immediately what he was like: naked, fat, and flabby. From his height in the mirror he deduced he wasn’t yet an adult. Was he a child? An adolescent? He was upset to see himself naked; he didn’t understand why—nudity had never bothered him before. Was it the misshapen body, the pounds of flesh, the chubby, acne-ridden face? Who was he? What was he all about? He walked through the house, gaining in stability all the time. He opened the door to the bedroom that was next to the bathroom. There were some skates next to the bed. And lots of pennants on the walls. There was also a desk, exercise books, reading books. And a shelf full of comics, a football, and some photos. A photo of himself (he recognized himself straightaway, just like in the bathroom: fat, spotty, and dressed as if for indoor football, in a blue jersey with a white stripe on each sleeve). He found clothes in the cupboard: underpants, a T-shirt, a polo, tracksuit bottoms, socks, and sneakers. He got dressed.


He looked through the spy-hole in the front door. Outside he could see a landing and three more front doors. He went back to the living room, ran his finger along the spines of the few books on the shelves. He caressed a china mug. Turned on the radio. Music blared out, but he couldn’t understand the words:


. . . unforgettable doves,
unforgettable like the afternoons
when the rain from the sierra
stopped us going to Zapoopan . . .


He switched it off. Silence. Sat down on the sofa. *****d up the channel-changer. Turned on the TV. Changed channels; brightened the colors as much as he could, turned the volume all the way up. Turned it all the way down. It was so easy. There was a book open on the sofa. He *****d it up, convinced he would understand nothing, but the second he looked at the page, he read almost fluently: “I’ve moved. I used to live in the Duke Hotel, on the corner of Washington Square. My family has lived there for generations, and when I say generations I mean at least two-hundred or three-hundred generations.” He closed the book, and when he’d put it back where he’d found it, he remembered he’d found it open and not shut. He *****d it up again, and while he was looking for the page it had been open to, he heard the sound of keys turning in a lock. A man and a wo**man appeared; they were clearly adults. The man said, “Hello.” The wom*an walked over, kissed him on the cheek, looked him up and down, and asked: “How come you’ve put your pants on backwards?” He looked at his tracksuit bottoms. How was he to know they were back to front? He shrugged his shoulders. “Have you done your homework?” the man asked. Oh, no, not homework! He imagined (as if he could remember) an earlier time, when homework and backward pants didn’t exist. “Get on with it then!” It was the woman’s turn. Before going to his bedroom and getting on with it, he went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out a can of Diet Coke, that he struggled to open (still being clumsy with his hands), and spilled half on the floor. Before they could scold him, he went to the junk room, and as he unhooked the mop, he spotted three beetles huddling against the wall; after freezing for a moment, they tried to escape. He felt disgusted, put his right foot on them, and pressed down until he could feel them squashing.

[^m00dO_oD_kOlJiBrIyA^]

Na jastuku... Bdim na ponocnoj strazi kao stari posustali ratnik... Kom svaki put od riznice neba jedva zapadne mesecev zlatnik... Pod oklopom drhti kosuta plaha vecno gonjena tamnim obrisima straha Koja strepi i od mirnih obronaka sna...
Nedostaje mi nasa ljubav, mila... Bez nje se zivot kruni uzalud... Nedostajes mi ti, kakva si bila... Nedostajem i ja... Onako lud... Ja znam da vreme ne voli heroje... I da je svaki hram ukaljalo... Al meni, eto, nista sem nas dvoje nije valjalo...
Kad potrazim put u srediste sebe, staze bivaju tesnje i tesnje... I skrijem se u zaklon tvog uha kao mindusa od duple tresnje... Al uspevam da jos jednom odolim da prosapucem da te nocas ruski volim... sto su reci... Kremen sto se izlize kad tad...
Nedostaje mi nasa ljubav, mila... A bez nje ovaj kurjak menja cud... Nedostajes mi ti, kakva si bila... Nedostajem i ja... Onako lud... Ja znam da vreme svemu menja boje... I da je silan sjaj pomracilo... Al meni, eto, nista sem nas dvoje nije znacilo...
Ponekad jos u moj filcani sesir spustis osmeh ko carobni cekin... I tad sam svoj... Jer ma kako me zvali ja sam samo tvoj licni harlekin...
......Ja znam da vreme uvek uzme svoje... I ne znam sto bi nas postedelo? Al meni, eto, nista sem nas dvoje nije vredelo...

[desert de Lleó]

...


"Mogu ti reci da si nesto najbolje sto sam dosad sreo. I nemoj da mi govoris kako te ne poznajem i da je ovo samo glupa fraza, jer postoje trenuci kada mozes da vidis coveka, onako, odjednom. I kako ti se otkrije tada, u tom trenutku, to je prava istina o njemu ili njoj. Dovoljno mi je da ukradem samo malo te tvoje razlicitosti i da osetim kao da sam udahnuo cist kiseonik."

[the_sacrament]

- Ali, bio joj je suviše sličan. Operisan od svake emocije, plašio se osjećaja koja su ga vukla njoj. Trebali su se, na neki neobjašnjiv način, ne mogavši jedno bez drugog. Ali, biti zajedno, ni to nisu mogli.

[Free bird]

Svjetski, a nas. Moj drug Marko V. Uzivajte.

Sa druge strane zida

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pogledom
ne dozvoljavajući
zakleti na čuvanje
prošlosti
u hermetički
zatvorenim doživljajima

poredeći dva vidljiva kraja
spajajući ih u istu tačku
ne dobih utjehu
već prividnu melanhoniju
učaurenu negdje duboko
u prostoru presvučenom tamom
čije isparane povlačim rubove
skrivajući se od sebe samog

čujem
dozivanje sjutra
istovjetno
zvuku lišća
svud naokolo
odraz je
čarobnog jutra
rađanja iz tame
novih priča
koje već
dobro znam
odjek pucanja
stapa se
s akordima
sunca
preći ću put
od juče
do sjutra
tamo ne
tapkaju u mraku
ruke više
nikad neće
držati prazno

prepoznah te sa krovova
uramljene praznine
mjesta gdje se vratiti ne želim
pravolinijski i naopačke
iščekujući pisma
sopstvene sjenke
do pola pune
pogleda ka nebu
zarđala vrata lavirinta
tačka ispred nepomičnih
apstraktan će biti kraj

nužnost kritike
nas baca u
kauzalne lance
ideja koje se mogu iskoristiti
u činu identifikacije
a priori
čistog uma
da li si tu?
pojavi se
oslobodi me rasuđivanja

ostavi platno prazno
osjećaj strah
dok gutaš svijet
vrijeme je
sa druge strane zida
ne sputava
poslijedice nek
ne budu krivac
ekstazi u ludilu
dok iz vena
šiklja strast

nasuprot toku
nabujale rijeke
ispod kože
išarane ožiljcima
nečija sjenka
bori se za vazduh
usta punih riječi
krajolik je prilično siv
podsjeća na nešto
što se još nije desilo
srušeni spomenici
svjedoci su promjene
pojavi se iz zidova
nabreklih od vlage
kao priviđenje božanstva
nazivam te čudom
do prvog mraka
kada te ne vidim više

[MorellaPraga]

Landscape with Strikers

By Quim Monzo




At nine a.m. the few people standing around on the subway platform are watching the news on the screens provided by the Barcelona Channel. The trains comply scrupulously with the minimum-service laws. They are running half-empty and many seats are unoccupied, which would be unthinkable at this time of day any other day, when occupancy approaches that of sardines in a can.


In front of the Goya Theater, at the top of Joaquín Costa, there are fewer whores than usual. Perhaps in keeping with the minimum-service notice. The overwhelming majority of shops are closed: from supermarkets to cosmetics stores, including bakeries and auto-repair shops. On Sepúlveda a charcuterie uses the old ploy of keeping the metal gates half-open, so that if a client shows up they can serve him, but if a *****ter shows up they appear to be closed. In contrast, the local bar is open, which even the strikers are grateful for. “You’re very brave,” one of them says to the owner of the establishment, as he drinks his beer. “It’s not about bravery. If we don’t work, we don’t eat.” On the sidewalks lie piles of uncollected garbage in enormous black bags, some of them split open. A beggar pisses on one of them, and when he’s finished he lies back down on his piece of cardboard.


On the Rambla, all the newsstands are closed. Even the Andean musicians and their earsplitting amps have skipped their gig on the Plaça de Catalunya where, at last, a long-awaited silence reigns. Only in front of El Corte Inglés can a few shouts and whistles be heard. Police vans stand there, and *****ters stationed at every entrance to the department store are shouting “Scabs!” at the security guys and the customers—who look like tourists—who walk in or out. There are very few, because most of them give the place a wide berth when they see the scene. Strike stickers all over their chests, some *****ters sit on the ground to form a barrier.


At this point, a man wearing a white T-shirt and a two-day stubble decides to go into the store but, unlike the tourists, the guards stop him. They realize he’s from the *****t line and figure he wants to go in to recriminate the employees who are not striking. “I don’t see any signs saying ‘No Entry,’” he contends. A few shouts can be heard. A man from the *****t line takes out his Corte Inglés credit card and raises it on high. “Look! I’m a customer, I want to go in.” But the UGT union shield on his cap gives him away. As they still refuse to open the door, the clamoring of his fellow *****ters grows behind him: “We want to go in. We want to go in.” As often happens when people chant, after a while the slogan evolves and, evincing a sudden interest in making a purchase, some begin to cry “We want to shop! We want to shop!” all the while tapping on the glass doors with their Corte Inglés cards. The employees inside the store are half-smiling and, in response, the employees outside are, too. The scene is worthy of the finest hours of the Situationist International.

[desert de Lleó]

"Njena koza poseduje miris prabaka, njene oci vide i sa druge strane manastirskog zida na kojem su naslikane, njeni zubi su nepravilni ali umeju da grizu. Ona ume da se svadja kao poslednja ulicna alapaca, ali i da place kao kaludjerica nad Hristovim ranama. Njena koza pobedjuje farmaceutiku, njen znoj opija,a dlacice bockaju. Njeni nokti grebu, njen osmeh odjekuje, a tuga se odmah primeti."

Una